The anti-vax pinheads are a group I find particularly annoying. My aunt had polio. My grandparents’ generation saw the Salk vaccine for the wonder that it is, and saw polio for the danger it is. Have we forgotten so much so quickly?

When polio was something thatYour friends and family got,Damn right you’d wait in line to getThat magic-seeming shot.

When infant graves were commonplace,Each parent knew the cost;A victim of our own success,Perspective has been lost.

But now that science gives our livesMore health and fewer pains,True geniuses like Salk give wayTo Trumps with shit for brains.

Over on “Living the Scientific Life (Scientist, Interrupted)“, there is an unfair contest going on. Unfair, because (apparently) GrrlScientist likes graphics. “Please show us in a picture because as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words”, she says. Hmph. I have only 345 words for her:

A long time ago, if you check the graphs,There were more kinds of animals, and that’s just giraffes!They played around with brontosaurs, and even T. rex,And don’t you forget that they had long necks.

There were six giraffe species, or maybe moreA much different story than we thought beforeAs many as eleven, so there’d better be spaceOr wise old Noah is a big disgrace.

When God said to Noah “time to make me an ark”The animals lined up for the chance to embarkThe cats, and rats, and elephants, two by twosHeard the astounding news:

There were six giraffe species, or maybe moreA much different story than we thought beforeAs many as eleven, so there’d better be spaceOr wise old Noah is a big disgrace.

Old Noah was puzzled—he’d planned for just two—But now there were many; so, what should he do?He looked at his list, to check who stays and goesAnd just what do you suppose?

There were six giraffe species, or maybe moreA much different story than he thought beforeAs many as eleven, so there’d better be spaceOr wise old Noah is a big disgrace.

You remember the song; you remember it claimsThat the unicorns were hiding, playing silly gamesThe truth is that God has incompetent staff,And each one thought “a giraffe’s a giraffe”

But no, there were six giraffe species, or maybe moreA much different story than we thought beforeAs many as eleven, so there’d better be spaceOr that pinhead Noah is a big disgrace.

The unicorns were there—You could hear their laughs—But the trick is, they got there behind the giraffes!Old Noah screwed up, and someone had to pay….And that’s why you’ll never see a Unicorn, to this very day.

You’ll see six giraffe species, or maybe moreA much different story than we thought beforeAs many as eleven, so there had to be spaceAnd old man Noah is a big disgrace.

(to the tune of “the unicorn song”, by the incredible Shel Silverstein. Like I had to tell you…)

You cannot be a cuttlefishAnd hide in pixels, or in ink,While still appeasing those who wishTo ask about the stuff you think.And so I turn to camouflageTo hide a little—or a lot.I write a verse that’s part mirage—Some of it’s true, but some is not.

8 Passions

I’ve a passion for food, and a passion for snow(I will go out for ice cream at twenty below)I’ve a passion for poetry—also, for Greeks(The Odyssey’s best in the words Homer speaks)A passion for travel, but also for home(A place to come back to, and places to roam)A passion for language, a passion for culture(Both living and dead—I’m a bit of a vulture)

8 Things to do before I die

First, eat some of every food in the world;Then do that again, one more time.To learn to play bagpipes, and then mandolin;Find someone who’d pay me to rhyme.To act, as Iago, and Caliban, too;Learn a language, start a new trend.Or trade all of these for the chance to go backAnd start over again with [my friend].

8 Things I often say

“That’s a really great question”,I often will say, And of course, “I do not know the answer”“You know that a horoscope’s nothing but lies”“Well, of course I think that—I’m a Cancer.”“In my humble opinion—which also is right”And yes, “It’s my job: I’m a Dad.”To my dog: “what, again? Hey, I just took you out!”And though it seems dated, “Egad!”

I’ve never really looked for friends, Held tryouts or auditions;The people whom I love the mostSeem random acquisitions.For every stand-out quality(Believe me, those are ample)Another friend is there to actAs opposite example.With so many people whom I love,So many I hold dear—Although the question’s very good,You’ll find no answer here.

A pair of hucksters had a bet, a long, long time agoEach swore that he could prove himself the lowest of the low;Each knew who was the world’s top swindler: “Naturally, I am!”And so the competition: who could pull the greatest scam?

The first said “I shall tell each father, mother, son and daughter,That I can cure most anything with nothing more than water!”Oh, sure, he had to shake it up, succuse each next dilution,But in the end it’s water, and there’s nothing in solution.

The second watched, and chuckled, “I admit, that’s very good!You kept it simple—not at all the scam I thought you would!But frankly, in simplicity, you’ve left an open door,Lemme show you how to do it, when you do a little more.”

So the second had another plan, and here’s how it begins:“I will have the people pay me when I puncture them with pins!Not a hypodermic needle with a drug or some vaccine,But a pin—that’s all, a pin—that we can only hope is clean.”

The first, in turn, was quite impressed, and told the second so;And by this time both hucksters knew how far the two might go.Colloidal silver, orgone rays, and therapeutic touch,TM, reflexology, and enemas and such.

But time and time again, their efforts only met success—They knew they had to try once more to make a bigger mess;They had to pull out all the stops, and really take a chance…The time had come for sorcery with eggs and underpants.

“You’ve got a curse, you’re going to die, it’s too late now to beg;There’s just one chance—you’ll need to bring me urine, and an egg,A plate, a pair of underpants, and yes—five thousand pounds.”(The fact they were not laughing by this point is what astounds)

The victim paid five hundred pounds, but not the whole five grand,And so the hucksters argue still, who’s best in all the land.As long as there are victims there, and money to be had,This contest will continue—who’s the baddest of the bad?

So keep your eyes wide open, and be sure your brain’s engaged,For I’m certain there are scams out there this verse has not presaged;If you hear your spine needs cracking, or your underwear are hexed,You can call yourself a skeptic, or have hucksters call you “next”.

It was Cephalopodmas, and all through the blogsNot a writer was stirring—all sleeping like logs.Each blogosphere-dweller, from Orac to PZWas all bundled up and just taking it easy.Their prone, sleeping forms, that might well have been graniteSlept through the most wonderful tale on the planet!For all ‘cross the globe, from the oceans and seas,All the cephalopods, just as nice as you please,Took a break from their lurking in kelps and in coralsTo visit the houses of people with morals.(Ironic, you think? If they hadn’t been sleeping,The bloggers would be so much happier peeping,And witnessing all of this marvelous night.Well, now that I write of it… next year, they might.)

But how can a creature that’s mainly pelagicAccomplish all this? Is it hoax? Is it magic?Of course, I could never achieve it aloneI had oceans of help—why, in every time zoneThere were octopi, cuttlefish, nautilus tooAnd squid by the thousands who knew what do do.From the deepest of depths, from the shallowest shoals,From around the equator and close to the poles,From every far corner of all seven seasCame crawlers and swimmers, as quick as you please,From cuttlefish cubby or octopus den,To each lend a hand, or perhaps eight or ten.The skies and the seas were both darker than soot;No safe place for tentacle, feeler, or foot—Was it safe for the journey? I had to think twice,But a wise old molluscan proposed this advice:“You know, you should hitch up some firefly squid”So, not being stupid, that’s just what I did—(In the darkest of depths, when I could not find any, I used the much larger Taningia danae).With a glow that left headlights in sad obsolescenceWe lit our own way with our bioluminescence.(And once (but just once) when we plain lost our bearingsWe got back on track with the help of some herrings.On Cephalopodmas, good nature prevails—Even giant squid know they can trust the sperm whales—And whether you’re predator, whether you’re prey,You can take the day off. Hey, it’s only one day.)And with luminous squidlings providing the light,The Onycotuthidae took us to flight!(It’s a myth that a reindeer can fly, as you knowBut true that some squid can, as others can glow!)So we flew, over trees, over hills, over mountains,(Keeping moist by, sometimes, flying low over fountains)We flew over deserts, with sagebrush and cactus;Some day we’ll invade, so it’s really good practice.And each place we flew, and the others we crawled,We left little gifts, that surprised and enthralledAll the good boys and girls, and their parents and pets(Why should some folks miss out on what other folks gets?)An octopus, crawling up pipes from the sewers, Might leave a small gift, say, a bottle of Dewars.For those who do not have a liking for whiskey, Perhaps lingerie (although nothing too risky); If the oysters cooperate, maybe some pearlsFor the fancy tongue-piercings of good boys and girls.If we think we’ve been spotted, then quick as a wink,We are gone—what remains is a black cloud of ink,(But when it’s so dark you can’t see where you’re goingThen ink is no good—so a cloud that is glowing–A trick taught by Heteroteuthis dispar)So it shows where you were, when you no longer are,And predators, peepers, or unwilling hostsSee nothing—or see what might well have been ghosts.They know they’ve seen something, but what? They won’t swear.By that time, of course, we are long gone from there.You can see from the picture that, once, we were caughtBy some kittehs, who said “U R not who we thot.”But we gave the poor kittehs a soft little pat,‘Cos we knew we were safe—who’d believe a dumb cat?Then back to the oceans, for seafood and beer,Saying Merry Cephalopodmas, and Happy New Year!

So, when I wrote about knitting, I got lots of visits from “ravelry.com”, which appears to be an online community of knitters and crocheters. This group easily doubled the number of visits I was getting (but they did not tend to leave comments!)

So the experiment–knitters like poems about knitting… do car people like poems about cars? (Of course, my ultimate goal would be to have this read on air by Click and Clack on Car Talk…) This is an old poem of mine (written in response to a comment, “the murmer of innumerable motors”…), really not much more than a collection of cliches put to verse.

The Old Car

My car does not murmur; she groans and complains And she limps–just a bit–on the right. She shouts out in protest at tasks she disdains As one cylinder fails to ignite. Whenever we turn, there’s a noise from the brakes That’s a hollow and cancerous cough. The faster the highway, the harder she shakes Until bits of her start to fall off.

I remember the days when she purred like a cat So responsive, so agile, so fast; She would tear through a curve and then leap down the flat And refuse–stubborn thing–to be passed. I will always remember the car she once was— That’s the reason I can’t let her go; It’s the things that she did, not the things that she does; I suppose it will always be so.

I, myself, I admit, may be showing some wear And my warrantee’s long since expired; There’s some rust in the joints and some grey in the hair And what once revved me up makes me tired. When I look, with my near-sighted eyes, at my car It’s the beauty of old that I see; If you look this direction—I see that you are— Would you please do that favor for me?

Shelley serves as my muse again today… The brain was not her first post about anatomically accurate knitting; there was a previous post on a cute and cuddly teratoma. Ok, so she calls it “complicated and grotesque”, but tomayto tomahto. But the knit teratoma is indeed cute and cuddly, if you ask me. So I thought I would try a slightly different spin on the whole idea of having had a twin who died and whose body, in the womb, was absorbed into yours in the form of a tumor with recognizable body parts.

I mean, that can’t be all bad, can it?

“Teratoma”, or “Knit me a Sister”.

“I have an invisible friend”, I said,“But she doesn’t hide beneath my bed,Or in my closet–no, instead, I keep her tucked inside.”

“We do not mean to condescend,But we all know, there’s no such friend;This fabrication now must end.”My Mom and Dad replied.